Shiver
by Suncesco
Summary: Originally for my other series of drabbles, Do You Remember?, but became its own fic instead. Watson is cold and irritated after walking home in the rain. T for alcohol references. Title comes from the Maroon 5 song Shiver.


This was originally going to be a chapter in Do You Remember?, but I decided I didn't want it put with the rest of them. It doesn't fit very well and it kind of has a different feel to it. It's slightly crackish. I'm not really pleased with it. I wasn't going to post it, but I thought what the hell, might as well. So, without further ado, here it is!

* * *

Damn this weather. Damn this whole day.

Watson was soaked to the bone. It was pouring rain and it seemed every cab in the city was in hiding or already in use. He'd been walking for at least two miles now. His extremities were numb and he could all but hear the water sloshing about in his shoes. This had to be the worst day he'd had in a long time.

An hour and a half after leaving work, he arrived on the doorstep of his Baker Street abode. He fumbled with the door for a few moments, but eventually made it into the sitting room of his shockingly warm flat. The heat seemed to burn, but he craved it all the same. Watson removed his shoes, socks, and coat as quickly as his fingers would allow, then put them near the fire to dry. His next thought was of going to his rooms and changing into something drier, but at that particular moment, Sherlock Holmes came waltzing through the doorway.

"Good evening, Watson. How is the weather outside?" he asked with a snide grin.

Watson grimaced. "If you don't mind, I'm going to go change."

"Oh, I don't mind," the detective replied.

"Thank you." Watson moved for the stairs and Holmes sidled out of the way. He mounted the first few steps when he noticed Holmes. He was standing at the base of the stairs, looking up expectantly at Watson.

"I'd prefer to go alone," Watson informed him.

"So would I," replied the thin figure below. "I'm just going to my rooms to fetch my pipe."

"...Alright," Watson looked at him in annoyance. He continued up the stairs and into his room. Before closing the door, he gave the detective another sultry glare. Something was up with him today.

A few minutes and a fresh set of considerably drier clothes later, Watson stepped out of his chambers and ambled downstairs. He was feeling much better now and felt a little guilty for snapping at Holmes, but the tall man seemed no where to be found. And it was quiet. Too quiet...

"Happy birthday, my dear Watson,"

Watson nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt the breathy whisper in his ear. His heart was racing and his cheeks felt flushed. "Holmes-" he started.

The man behind him reached a slender hand forward and covered Watson's mouth, muffling the rest of his sentence. "Stop. You talk too much."

Watson got a strong whiff of alcohol from the detective's skin. With surprise, he realized it had been there all along. Holmes' speech was slurred as well. He silently cursed himself for not noticing earlier.

Holmes released Watson's face and took a step back. The doctor turned to face him. "Holmes, are you drunk?" he asked, knowing the answer.

"Of course not. Why would you suggest such a thing?" The taller man sauntered out of the room as he replied. "Come in here and get your present."

Mustering up his courage, Watson followed him, prepared for all sorts of things to come flying at him or assault his eyes. What he found instead was a beaming Holmes standing next to one of Mrs. Hudson's better bowls filled with what looked like poorly prepared and half cooked cake batter.

"I made you a cake!" The thin man was absolutely glowing with pride at his handiwork.

Watson felt his gaze soften. "Why, thank you Holmes. I'll be sure to try some as soon as I can, but first I think we should get you to bed. You look like you've had a long day."

"I am a little tired. You'll be sure to try the cake, though?"

"Of course I will. Now let's get you to your room." Watson gently led the stumbling detective by the shoulder into his bedroom. Holmes obediently crawled, fully clothed, into his bed and pulled the blankets around him. Without another word, Watson sat at the foot of the bed and waited for his drunken companion to fall asleep.

He checked Holmes' breathing rate, then crossed the hall into his room to fetch a book. He returned and found a comfortable spot on the floor to monitor the sleeping man for the next few hours. The mess downstairs could wait.

He was strangely touched by the fact that Holmes had remembered his birthday.

* * *

A/N: Yeah, not too happy with it.


End file.
